Down the Shore
by VioletLolitaPop
Summary: The first thing Ivan notices is Alfred himself. And really, considering his beloved's dress, it truly is only natural. .:Drabble : Semi-Ho!America'ish : Totally not an AU:.


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Title: Down the Shore  
>Rating: PGishish<br>Pairings/Characters: Russia/America  
>WarningsNotes: I hate Jersey Shore, but I love tan!Ivan. ;D Sorta ho!America'ish, totally not AU though.

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The first thing Ivan notices is Alfred himself. And really, considering his beloved's dress, it truly is only natural.

Alfred sits perched on their sofa; a tight fitting dress dyed a gaudy pink with the thinnest straps he's ever seen. His eyes briefly flicker towards the heels strapped around his feet (also the same tacky color) before focusing solely on the hand travelling up towards the obscenely large bump of blonde hair piled atop Alfred's head.

Ivan takes a moment to wonder just how Alfred was able to manage such a feat with such very little hair.

"Ivan, babe, you ready!" Alfred calls out, as though he doesn't notice that Ivan is already in the room.

"Ready for what?" he asks, causing Alfred to jump slightly in surprise.

Alfred turns his head in every direction to make a dramatic show of finding Ivan in the room. When he finally lands his eyes on Ivan, his eyebrows shoot up from behind the oversized sunglasses plastered on his face as he takes in the other's appearance.

"Babe, you cannot go out like that," he says in a serious whine. "I mean, what the hell? Did you not bother to GTL today, or what?"

Ivan simply blinks in response and as he begins to contemplate over the meaning behind the acronym Alfred has thrown at him, the blonde himself rises from his seat and trots over to him. With one quick grip of his hand, Alfred drags Ivan from the living room and into their bedroom.

"I'm the one ready first for once," Alfred comments all the while. "Nobody is going to believe that, I mean, can you imagine?"

He continues to prattle on even though Ivan hears none of it. He's too concerned over the absurd situations he's suddenly found himself in and can't help but wonder just how it is he got here.

"Here, stand right there," Alfred instructs as he plants Ivan in front of their closet. "Lemme see if I can find something for you to wear."

Once Alfred throws the closet doors open, that's when Ivan is greeted with the worst of it. Staring back at him from the floor length mirror hanging against one of the doors is him. Only not him.

The Ivan in the mirror looks nothing like how Ivan remembers himself. The hair on his head is blown back and greased, the clothing he wears is too tight looking on top and too loose on the bottom. Though perhaps the worst of the worst is Ivan's skin.

Gone is the snowy complexion he's lived with his entire life, replaced with a dark brown tone that looks to be made out of leather and more orangeish under certain lighting. It's shocking, disturbing, and horrifying, all rolled into one. He's so transfixed by this sight that he can't heard the whining cries of Alfred demanding he listen to him as the blonde waves questionable clothing in front of him.

When it finally becomes too much for Ivan to bear, he shuts his eyes tight and fights against all the noise crashing up against his skull…

Ivan opens his eyes again with a sharp gasp, startling himself out of sleep apparently. A quick survey of his surroundings shows it had not only been him to fall asleep. Dressed in his familiar sleepwear, Alfred is curled up on the opposite side of the sofa, popcorn bowl and bags of chips scattered about his sleeping form and glasses askew, snoring away and no hair bump in sight. Seeing that much rouses Ivan to search himself, and a great deal of relief washes over him when he sees his normal sleeping clothes and pale skin.

Ivan runs a hand over his tired expression before registering the same tone of whiny demands dream-Alfred had used coming from the direction of the television. It takes him a moment to realize that they had fallen asleep while still watching this show Alfred had asked him to view with him, and it's with a weary sigh he rises from the sofa and stalks over to the glowing screen. With a quick jab at a button, he shuts it off completely.

This is definitely the last time he indulges in one of Alfred's all-night Jersey Shore marathons.

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Disclaimer: Folks, here's a story 'bout Minnie the Moocher. She was the red hot hoochie coocher. (Totally not relevant to this fic, but Cab Calloway is amazing and he's all I've been playing lately.)

-So this is written for a very lovely author, whose name I'm not sure about anymore, I need to check on that. See what she's calling herself these days.

-All the same, darling, you're gorgeous. And I'm not sure how this got lost in editing, but at least I got it posted. :D

-Anyway, yeah… Jersey Shore. Not my fave. But for some reason, I feel like Alfred would like it. :/


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